Singing for themselves

Tourists to the rim of the westClang and yapItalian and DublinAcross the bar.

And in the hanging momentsIsland men,In from fields and seaStill gather to sing.

Holding hands,They row the singer out from the dayInto the songs of early evening -As they sit and sing for themselves.

With faces of workAnd locked handsUsed to hard rhythmThey row him.

He pays out the wordsAlong his droneHanging long on the edge of the key,A fragile slipping grip,But then sure.And dipping and rising.Uncoiling.

Heads close bent,They share the burden of the song.Their ears watch the story unfold.It touches their frowns with flickers of recognition.

So that they nodAnd press on.Pacing their fists.Living the work.

The back-sprung Irish wordsAs secret from the touristsAs the seam of two lovers belliesIn the dark,Touching

For these songs are heavyWith oiled desire.A thousand times sung.A thousand times drawn in.Pangs, hangingOn hooks of yearning and heartbreak.Lusts of youth,Time-rowed smooth,Fluid and edgeless,By their straining.

They pull.Singing for themselves.Their heads close in.

Italian and Dublin shoutsAre rising oblivious.

A moment of breath.The song is done.Congratulating, they laughAnd slap each other,As when together they pull in a netOr draw up a boat.

Shy, they are lostIn a tongue of darknessBy the open door.The singer grinsOver the edge of his glass.